


Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

by who_is_small



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:30:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_is_small/pseuds/who_is_small
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is writing a poem, intending to prove a point. Unfortunately, he gets distracted by Urban Dictionary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mustbehavingfun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustbehavingfun/gifts).



> My [**first gift**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/217787) was so schmoopy that it practically lacked only John and Sherlock skipping through a meadow, with dandelions in their hair. I thought this might soften the blow a bit. (I also deduced that you are not overly fond of Mr. Anderson. Sherlock was happy to rip him a new one for you.)  
>  Thanks to [pantropia](http://pantropia.livejournal.com/profile) for quick and efficient beta.

"It is not as easy,“ said John, "as you think."

"Pish! Of bloody course it is. _Anyone_ can write romantic drivel. It's a child's play. Now facts, facts are different. Facts are tricky. You could not solve a case on your own, John, admirable though you are. But I could write schmoopy prose if I really put my mind to it. And that, my friend, is the _crucial_ ," Sherlock jabbed John´s sternum with his forefinger, "difference between us."

"Ow!"

It was Sunday afternoon. The sun was shining, all the criminals were, presumably, having a nice day out with their wives and kids, and Sherlock had no case to solve. Bored out of his skull, he buzzed around John like a bee on a sugar high, being irritating.

"Bugger off," said John, "I am trying to work."

"But I’m boooored," whined the great detective.

"Well, find a way to amuse yourself!"

Sherlock circled the room three times and returned to his default position, perched on the arm of the sofa, staring at John.

"John."

Silence.

"John."

"Yes," said John testily, pressing Ctrl+S.

"I bet you I could do much more intelligent job than the semi-coherent drivel you keep on spouting on your _blog_."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Anything you can do, I can do better," said Sherlock and snatched John's laptop from him.

"Hey!"

"Shush. I will prove it to you. I will write," said the detective, "a poem. A higher form of written word than prose. I have never done it before, but all that is necessary is to understand the relevant rules. I need only a thesaurus and a rudimentary grasp of the Queen's English."

John pressed his palms against his eyelids. He felt a headache coming.

"Sherlock," he said. "You are brilliant, but a thesaurus will not make a poet out of you."

"Five pounds says it will."

"You are not even _romantic_."

"I can be _very_ romantic."

"What rhymes with eyes?"

"Mice!" cried Sherlock. "That's easy!"

"Five pounds it is," said John. "And I will watch you," he added, "with considerable interest."

He flopped on the sofa and disappeared behind a copy of Guardian. One interesting article about the dangers of rural cycling later, he lowered the paper and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder.

  
Ode to Science of Detection

_Poem by Sherlock Holmes (Consulting Detective)_

Other than that, only a cursor was blinking forlornly in a text window, beneath 47 opened tabs.

"So far, I feel curiously unthreatened," remarked John.

"Wait for it," said Sherlock, writing in the thesaurus window furiously.

John opened the paper again, amusing himself with the cryptic crossword. 'Soon,' he thought, 'I'll win five pounds. And I will get to lord it over Sherlock at least until Armistice Day. Fantastic.' He filled in the missing six letters in 25 across: _Item: what to do about blind mice?_ (Answer: DETAIL) and turned to the following article, dedicated to gardening.

"One day we are complaining about drought,“ the article informed, "the next we're having to plan [trips up to the allotment](http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/allotment/2011/jun/10/allotments-gardeningadvice) between the heavy showers that seem to pass every hour or so.“  
John felt his eyelids grow heavy. He nodded off, dreaming of jars full of pickled eyes and tailless rodents in the fridge, and was just musing on which one of them might be less disgusting, provided he washed them down with a cup of really strong Darjeeling, when he suddenly jerked awake and realised that Sherlock had been reading out loud. Apparently, for some time now. He focused.

 _"…and thus I identified the murderer's identity,"_  
read Sherlock,  
 _"even without any mobile biometrics screening capability._  
 _He stabbed her repeatedly in a crime of passion_  
 _as if sharp instruments were going out of fashion._  
 _The killer might yet dodge the early meeting with his maker in Heaven_  
 _thanks to the Homicide Act of 1957._

_I ascertained when the victim drew her final breath_  
 _Using measurement of coagulation of saliva after death_  
 _Without any need to check_  
 _The stiffness of the broken cartilage of the neck._

_Yet, the perpetrator of the violent assault_  
 _Was not immediately caught_  
 _Which was Anderson _’s_ fault_  
 _For he stupidly trampled the evidence_  
 _The dim flat-footed pillock with no competence._

_To boot, he had the bloody nerve this to dismiss_  
 _Maladroit buffoon that he is._

_For every idiot like Anderson_  
 _There should be someone named John_  
 _Who is appreciative of my detecting style_  
 _Unlike that shit pile._

_Scotland Yard’s HR departement is clearly losing steam_  
 _When a braying ass like Anderson can become part of the team._

_Though my position was tough_  
 _My eagle eye saw enough_  
 _And I prepared a trap_  
 _Which would soon very cleverly (if I say so myself) snap._

_I did, however, not expect_  
 _That my suggestions would meet with disrespect_  
 _Of a certain cross-eyed goon_  
 _who would not be out of place in a Daffy Duck cartoon._

_Thus, as shown in the Case of the Blind Banker_  
 _Anderson´s a wan-"_  
  
"Sherlock!"

"-what?"

"I thought that this was meant to be an ode to science of detection," cried John, "not a hate mail to poor Anderson. Seriously."

"Well," Sherlock scratched his head, "I might have got a bit carried away."

John grabbed the laptop.

"My god, Sherlock," he said, "this is not a poem. This is nine pages of profanities. Including freaking alliterative insults. What is _kangpeh_? And at the end, you are even cussing his _mother_. SHERLOCK!!" 

Holmes grinned at him.

"Right," said John, "right. I will give you ten pounds, if you stop writing this."

"Twenty."

"No bloody way."

 _"Being a sniffer dog in forensics does not give you power,"_  
recited Sherlock archly,  
 _"and your Mum's so ugly, they filmed "Gorillas in the Mist" in her shower."_

"Fifteen.“

„Deal.“

_„Kangpeh.“_

„Tsk tsk, John. Such _language_.“

-the end-

**Author's Note:**

> Cryptic crosswords are a [**bitch and a half**](http://www.theguardian.com/crosswords/cryptic/25333), kids. :( Start w/ no. 25. *I* did, hence fic. Damn, this shit happens with no reasonable ORDER, right? I mean, you're just enjoying the newspaper and suddenly your eye is twitching and you're helplessly wrestling a bad!poem at 2 AM. WHY.
> 
> More BBC Sherlock? Why not try [**The Final Problem (Seriously)**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/147178)!
> 
> Or, how about a dessert: a 1930s Sherlock, raising his kid who doesn't like monographs in [**The Bonfire Night**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/338117)!


End file.
